Learn more about other poetry terms
Don’t love me Just care for me Don’t love me Simply feed me. Wipe my tears
You make me smile in a time I forgot I knew how. A twinkle in my eyes and a sweat on my brow To stifle a laugh under breath made of steel You taught me to laugh, to smile, and to feel
These hands. These hands hold so much. These hands can hold the world, a heart, the power. So much counts on these hands, your hands, and yours.
Fingers frozen to keys . I fall in love with hands . I care not for faces , breasts, genitalia All I need are your hands.
Here we go.
His hands are calloused and torn, browned by the sun as always but now they are stained red with blood Silent, he grips the butt of his rifle with one hand and a dirty cloth with the other
I didn't want to think about the way you said my name; the way your soft, rose-pink lips moved and curled in a way, a way that made my heart stop and start so abruptly.
How strange That hands so gentle could touch with such fury And damage so intensely. How strange That hands so rough could touch the hearts of so many SO tenderly. How strange
Dear hands, Stop shaking stop picking. I wish you'd be still and Stop scratching stop flicking. Listen,
Dear Hands,I have never acknowledged you as I should Sometimes I have even hurt you You’ve been burned Bruised Sliced And cut
My icy appendages Feel snowstorm ravaged When lacking Your fire
Big hands, Soft like Clouds that Quickly turned Into violent Fists scarred With the Old memories Of us.
Sometimes, I wished that I can hold your hand, with our fingers interlocking, time just stopping, and I was wondering, if you'd be okay with that? Because when your palm is pressed against mine,
When I here Swiss Army Knife, the word strikes a cord with me bringing to mind a device for wilderness survival, a catch 22, a real man's man tool, the peak of human ingenuity
A year has passed I was always told hands for holding, For calling, For comforting. But now I belong to someone else My conscience will always point its way back to you.
My year My year? A roller coaster taking a nose dive off a pier. I've lost some, Far and near. Some close and dear. But I persevere I ask myself, why am I here?
Baptism, my soul washed clean a new life ahead of me of spreading my faith with my mind, my heart, and my hands. My Catholic hands that properly became Catholic on the day of my baptism,
I remember drawing masterpieces at only age five; bumpy stick figures with lines for appendages and no noses.
The shakes, the nerves, the trembles of absolute fear I feel in the tiny hands attached to me. They control me. They make one motion that consumes my focus entirely. I am drowning in a sea of my anxiety.
What once began as a thought flourished as the words were wrought like cascading raindrops falling from a single spot The words my hand created told a story that was dictated
I hide my face from you in an attempt to forget the way your hand perfectly in mine. You promised to never let go, but instead of using my hand to hold yours,
Wiser hands with more experience mold younger ones into shapes positions designed to mimic their own The paintbrush between my hands is not angled quite like hers She makes a single, long stroke across the white page
the lines of her hands whisper of pinky promises the good and the bad the cold nights of tears broken hearts, hands, love the days thoughts are smothering "do you promise?" "yes."
You asked me why I am shaking. Because I am unable to sit still with you. I want to be closer. So close the only air I breathe is the air you exhale. I want the only space I take up
My light skinned skinny little fingers intertwined with his dark long fingers. Our hands rested on his long dark jeans. His hand was warm and soft. Sort of comforting.
Ink on my palm Some things Don’t last
I don't remember Most of the dream. Just that you Were in it. Alive. I think I met Your parents? Your brothers? I don't remember Most of the dream.
in white she was to be in in a different place eighteen of the ninth month it was to be white as an angel she was having papers of white time took its time
*/ /*-->*/ I like to watch
My reflection is in my eyes And in my hands They are always moving Trying to find an abode Trying to find a cause Looking upon the distant faces With no color to define them
Let flowers grow from your hands from love and care each stem stands Some may break and your hands may ache When you let another take a flower One more will grow within the hour
those hands the way they hold me when we kiss tge wa they tingle me into bliss the way they tell me to get frisk those hands they tell me everything your hands
The paper’s edge
These hands you'l never hold Whenever it feels cold These hands you'll never hold Until it gets so old
Without a filter
My grandfather's hands tell a story
I am Unfinished. My edges aren't sanded smooth There are creases and circles worn into my eyes, There are scars and callouses on my hands There are stripes of uneven bronze across my skin
I woke up like this.
I have sweaty palms. The very thought of shaking hands shakes me to my very core.
i carry my right leg over the curb
My heart thumps as he comes closerpalms sweating, breath quickening.he sits at my table and glances at mewith eyes as blue as the ocean.
Dearest pinky, so small and frail,
I like to think i know you and that you know every dark corner of my being. how much is exchanged when gazes collide?
Little hands so cold and frail against the snow, they seem pale then the numbness comes as senses fail
I was in a jar No hands could untwist my lid Trapped. I was in a car No hands could break glass Save me I was in a house No hands could crack through
You held me Caressing flesh Tracing curves Turning your porcelain skin in circles around mine My body, scarred lived in Yours smooth
She looks at her hands Delicate hands which haven’t done much Shy hands which could change the world with just one touch Any act they make Could be a mistake Quick, hide them. Back in your jean pockets.
There are hands we hold in times of need Hands we clap in times of glee
At times, hands cannot express more than the heart. However, at others, the hands become merely tools of passion used on a lover. The hands are oft accompanied by other tools
The hands of Compassion are battered and worn with care and kindness.
They provide defense They build shelter Survival lies within the hands They pluck oranges from the furthest limbs Creating a sweet nectar juice, derived from a simple fruit
His hand in mine, I feel so small. Like a baby, My hand wraps around one of his fingers. He is safety. He knows how to keep me out of harm’s way, He would never hurt me.
HandsThey are taken for grantedWe use them everydayAre they what keeps us so candid?HandsThey actually define us commonersThey can be rough, soft, dry, moist, cold, warm
You Only Write Once Scholarship Slam These hands carried my wife through the threshold on our wedding night and comforted my daughter whenever she had a bad dream.
Days fly by and nights linger coldly, And I stand watching through the window, As the sands of time slip through the hourglass slowly, And yet I am ever-still as I keep vigil over those below.
And to this day I will admit that all I ever wanted was to hold your hand For the thought of my fingers playing in your palm Sent shivers everywhere Postage stamps weren’t cheap
Hands- young and taut, thick and thin, wrinkly and not- They're almost comical-their capabilities- A Surgeon heals and stitches, your wounds away, And mends the broken body.
Hands are beautiful... They touch and caress. They love and hold. They grasp a hand and hold it firmly to ensure. They touch a face sweetly and move the cascading hair gently from a face and ensure something.
You were the prophet With the truth of life written Across your palms And I would pray that Your overlapping sentences Would complete my broken ones And replace time with Perfect memories
She paused beside the coffin as a tear ran down her face.She gently touched-then held a hand; it's lines she softly traced.The same hand her father had once held upon a bended knee,as he nervously had asked the girl, “Will you marry me?”The touchi
My brown calloused hands stare back at me, Each little groove caked with dirt, Scratches filled with muck, Blisters oozing their complaints, after a grueling day of work. They are the hands of a rancher,
Bam, the door closes Your toe is in between Oww, oww, you yell and jump around while holding your leg Sensory nerves from your toes Shoots up your body to the brain
What if the canyons that ran on our hands Were scars from the crusades we never fought? And due to the restraints of our commands We never dared explore what we ought not.
They are little blankets for when the weather turns cold to wrap you fingers in warm and snug. Sometimes cotton red, or berry blue most often a color so bold you could find it in the snow.
Four childish eyes Looking at their own child Eight hands kept the baby standing Wrinkly hands against smooth skin Loved by six people Raised by six parents Two created her
come along and we will speak,speak words that flatter, so fluently.and i take it all in as i am prone to do,an effect of falling so easily for you.
They are the only two who don’t know. I am the only one who knows their hearts’ desire. Two shy hands with sparks in their eyes and secret hopes.
Walking through life, Dealing with people with up-turned noses, With their pants too low, With their attitudes hanging lower than their earrings, and their riches hanging from their finger tips.
A landscape for madman in my mind and the genius in yours. Kept short and trim and orderly, most days.
A brush of his plumps makes thy drown in thought. Savoring sweets off thy flesh though aren't dame. Melting in cold hands one's soul does not rot. Embracing, peering at movement in frame.
There are some drives Down the open flat of The coast highway, where we had hair Whipping against our cheeks, stinging, As the effect never shown in pictures.
Mouths slightly open like pitchers holding whatever happens to be on our tongues waiting for words to cool to room temperature as to not shatter the glass we pour them into.
These Hateful Hands and its Hateful Heart A galaxy of thoughts Rushing through my head As my trembling, pitiful hands Sought what was ahead
I hold my pool stick funny The way my dad showed me the little V my thumb and finger knuckles make I sometimes hold your name there because my fingers can't seem to find a note to sing
These hands delve into the ground to remake what I once found When I was better and my conscience was light as a feather I made this as empty as I feel, but now I'm not alone I am a weight eroding those
The little girl you see over there, Yes, the one with the vibrant, shiny, red hair. She's not much different from you and I Everyday she goes home and cry. A year ago, just like this day,
Mommy, why are my hands so small? Why does everyone say I look like you when I don’t see it at all? Why do you say I have ocean blue eyes and run your hands through my hair when it’s nothing but dry?
My hands are for writing, For painting, For greeting, For holding, For waving, For creating and destroying. With a fist they can hurt, With a poke or a tickle they can tease,
I've seen those hands before In a different country far from here I've smelled that scent before But it's not like he's standing beside me Flashbacks through my senses
Tears streaming down her face. Seems like everything is pulling her down. Staring up at the sky, Praying for a chance that things will get better. Don't worry, Give it time. Life is a rollercoaster.
To Hold. To Feel. To Write. To Draw. To Move. To Clench. Mine to Own, Yours to Hold. God’s best tool He’s given me. Hands.
Bandaids swirl around the sugar bowl Brightly colored strips wearing white textures A warm and worn comforter Cocoa and petals inside motivation Salt-flavored showers drain while blossoms begin stretching wide
Your hand holds mine so tightly I think you might crush it But I know we both need it Our hands are an anchor To know we're both there There for each other There forever in each other's hearts
Why can't I understand The things that are happening. It's when I try to understand That makes me feel unhappy. I'd rather live in a dream, Soar in a book, Than live in this world. Rather than look. See, I'm not really happy Though it may seem.
Both ironic and congruent in how the black mans hands bled in the same manner Jesus' did. Broken skin, a result, not of barabaric acts, but of the extended handshake with peace. Peeling along the life line, good-bye my brother.
Oh how I dream to pass No longer with the dream of Jesus To see and be With my beloved Jenny To stand at my own grave Think on earth how I behaved To see Willow and Knox
One tear fell I was alone Harsh words shattered, my perfect dream, and selfish reality was lain before my turbulant mind